Divination
by Waen
Summary: An AU, in which Enjolras is plagued by Tarot, Grantaire, illness, and the death of Combeferre. Semi-slashy and bittersweet.


Divination  
  
Enjolras sat at different table from Courfeyrac, which only made sense, because the man was unbearable.  
  
Courfeyrac was cheerfully drinking with Bossuet. Joly was not there as he had caught a small cold. Enjolras could hear the two quite plainly and knew they were drunk. He watched Courfeyrac from the corner of his eye with loathing.  
  
The handsome black-haired man leaned back in his chair, brandishing a book.  
  
"This," he said, "is a book on hands. It tells about one's life, personality, and so on, forever." He flipped through it. "Here, it predicts one's profession. What do they list...? Let's see- Writer, Painter, Royalty" -he laughed shortly- "Surgeon… Not many, eh?"  
  
Enjolras studied his own hand with thought. He wondered what the lines of a surgeon might be and if he possessed them.  
  
"Haven't got insurrectionists, have they?" Courfeyrac stroked his beard. "I wonder," he stated, "what a woman's hand might bear. Are there, perhaps, lines that mean 'wife'? Or 'widow'?"  
  
Enjolras' interest was gone. He felt irritated.  
  
"And here," said Courfeyrac, annoyingly loud, drawing the interest of a waitress to himself, "it shows how long you will live."  
  
Enjolras looked with worry at his hand, unwanted thoughts crowding his head.  
  
"It shows a diagram of the hand. It shows the 'life' line… head line… heart line, fate line, Apollo line!" He snorted "All that sort of thing. Let's see for me. Long life, and, judging by the loop of humour, a cheerful disposition!"  
  
There was a pause and Courfeyrac looked rather bothered. "Except it says I have poor artistic judgment here. And I know I don't have this: the loop of vocation. It means a dedication to work and career."  
  
Enjolras wondered which of the many lines on his palm might be his life line. And the loop of humour. It wouldn't be found there. And what was the loop of vocation? Which was it? He had a loop above his thumb and another between his middle fingers, but that was all, as far as he could tell.  
  
Courfeyrac was talking again.  
  
"And this! It shows your personality by your hand type. Elements, it seems. Or, at least, the Greek elements. Water hand, Fire hand, Earth hand… Do they have wooden hand, perchance? What a cruel fate that would be."  
  
Enjolras ignored him. In his mind, Courfeyrac could do without the loop of humour and a shorter life line. Then he felt bad and erased that thought.  
  
He quietly stood turning his elegant gaze to Courfeyrac.  
  
"Where did you get that?" he asked, for it had been bothering him that anyone would *buy* such a useless sort of book.  
  
Courfeyrac smiled his dashing smile, the one that so well set off Enjolras's gaze.  
  
"At a cheap book store. It's for Marietta. For Christmas."  
  
Enjolras sighed in disgust and stalked away.  
  
Courfeyrac smiled again; this was Living.  
  
Bossuet had not spoken. He was still getting over Joly's theories of cold cures.  
  
***  
  
That evening, after the other Amis had left, Enjolras stood around, carefully finishing a speech. Unfortunately, he did not notice the Courfeyrac lurking with his book.  
  
"Fearless Leader," he said, breaking the silence that fearless leader found quite pleasant "Would you like me to read your palm? See your revolution?"  
  
Enjolras could've killed him. Revolution? The deaths of young men? Ah, well. He would tolerate that if not taunting. Enjolras stalked to the door.  
  
"No, *thank you*," he said mincingly, and made to leave.  
  
Courfeyrac glared.  
  
"Coward. Wet blanket. Snob."  
  
Enjolras turned, eyes wide. "*What*?"  
  
Courfeyrac glowered, though not as Enjolras did. He glowered in teasing annoyance. He glared irritatingly.  
  
Then his face softened.  
  
"Well, perhaps not a snob. But you really are a wet blanket."  
  
"Is this supposed to encourage me to stay?"  
  
"Well, I thought you might stay a while longer to rebuke me." He grinned, "It's one of your talents, non?"  
  
"Is it?" Enjolras seemed almost distracted.  
  
"Rah-*ther*," murmured Courfeyrac.  
  
"That might tell you something about *your*self," said Enjolras, fetching the still uncompleted speech where he'd almost left it on his first, fast retreat. "However, it probably won't."  
  
Courfeyrac watched in dismal interest as Enjolras left.  
  
"How abrupt…" he murmured, then sat down at a table to read his book  
  
***  
  
The days passed. Somehow Courfeyrac's book was a favorite among all the Amis, except for Enjolras, who loathed it, and Combeferre, who felt the need to be decent for Enjolras's sake.  
  
Many meetings were spent with the participants smiling and laughing between themselves. And then Courfeyrac would laugh and say what Enjolras's hand must be like. "You can tell a man's personality and future from his hand but you can also tell his hand from his personality," he would say. Then he would follow this advice and bother Enjolras with comments such as "Ah, there is our darling fire hand." And "Yes, his palm has plenty of inspiration written on it, but we fear his life line is a tad short."  
  
Perhaps it was funny. Perhaps after a bottle of wine and friends around one, holding the mood in, it was funny, for the men laughed and loved. And Enjolras would act disgusted and walk away as though he didn't care. But he left his heart back, aching, with the laughter, and the words hurt him.  
  
  
  
***  
  
One evening, Combeferre came quietly over.  
  
"Studying so much for classes? You should be an excellent surgeon."  
  
"If I live long enough," murmured Enjolras, bending lower over the book.  
  
Combeferre sat comfortingly beside him. "They don't know what they talk of. They don't see. Listening to petty insults like those… they're like a child's. Just don't listen."  
  
"I don't." Enjolras looked sourly at Combeferre, all the world like a moody teenager.  
  
And he, being fearless leader of the revolution, tried to believe this.  
  
***  
  
But time went on and eventually every waitress and patron of Musain had been accosted, his or her hand demanded, and the fortune read. Slowly the thrill of finding swirls in someone's fingerprint had worn away. Every day as Enjolras came in he'd pray silently to himself that he'd never see the cursed book and hear the cursed lines again.  
  
But memories show us good things don't last.  
  
Enjolras was quietly talking to Combeferre about a book he'd found when Courfeyrac came in, all smirks and grins.  
  
Triumphantly he held up a deck of cards.  
  
Enjolras squinted at them in incredulously.  
  
"It seems," Courfeyrac said, addressing the Amis, "that our Fortunes are not over yet."  
  
Combeferre sighed. "He's fallen to Tarot…"  
  
Enjolras excused himself from his friend and quickly left the café. He wasn't free after all. Damn Courfeyrac. *Damn* Courfeyrac.  
  
He stood in the cold, snowflakes falling in his hair and melting, making it damp. He tried to think of how the poor were this night. Shivering, freezing, longing for salvation. Which was actually what he wanted himself. He closed his eyes. Could he talk to Courfeyrac? Tell him it was a distraction from the insurrection? He sighed. And get laughed at? And have someone offer to help him read his own future?  
  
Why did these men thirst so for their futures? Was it because they, like him, would only live a few more months? For now there was no doubt of the revolution. It would be in June. They knew what they read on their hands was not true and yet they read it anyway.  
  
He leaned back against a wall as he had been swaying a little.  
  
God, they were disillusioned. Perhaps he was too. But he never lied to himself about dying. He just lied about fearing it.  
  
He went home to his garret, opening his eyes first, of course.  
  
His garret was small and dark and scattered. There were old newspapers on the desk. The fireplace, which never burnt wood for lack of money, was filled with disused speeches he'd written long in the past and that had mocked him from their place on the desk.  
  
His bed was a mattress on a low hard bed frame. It was below a rather high small window that didn't open and was just glass. The glass was usually dusty, with dead insects and cobwebs obscuring the view.  
  
There was a desk at the head of the bed - if there was a head, because the bed seemed quite flexible in this aspect. The desk had a small oil lamp, which often ran out and was rarely refueled. When Enjolras really needed light he used candles.  
  
He lived in this place because his father had tossed him out on his ear. Logically, if not literally.  
  
And this may be the sort of situation where a revolution is an honorable way to escape an insane life.  
  
Enjolras lay on his bed watching the locked door at the far wall and the moonlight that fell on it. He couldn't sleep.  
  
He watched as the orange yellow light from the hall that showed around the door turned black. Then the only light *was* the moonlight.  
  
Tears ran down his cheeks.  
  
Why… Why was he the only man in Paris whose nights were spent lying on his bed longing but never obtaining sleep?  
  
Why…?  
  
Why the hell did everything work out as it did for him?  
  
Enjolras pulled himself out of bed and lit a candle.  
  
Was this will or insomnia?   
  
Surgeon is different from doctor, he also reminded himself, picking up a book and flipping through it.  
  
He leaned his head back and felt under his eyes.  
  
He'd have deep bruises there, he supposed to himself. And dizzy spells. He decided to try to sleep again.  
  
He didn't fall down or faint or have blank moments in class the next day, for which he was quite glad.  
  
Combeferre saw Enjolras at Musain and pulled out a chair for him.  
  
"You look exhausted," he murmured, marking his place in his book with a hand and giving Enjolras his full attention. "You should go home and sleep."  
  
"Perhaps…" Enjolras felt light headed, wondering vaguely how pale he was. His hands were very. "Combeferre, *why* do they love those cards so much?" he asked tiredly.  
  
He asked this mainly because he heard Courfeyrac say, "Stars, Joly. That's unexpected gifts from heaven…" Whether these words had just been spoken or whether they had been echoing in his for a while, he wasn't sure. But it bothered him.  
  
Combeferre sighed. "I don't know…"  
  
Enjolras stood again, unsteadily. "I'm going…"  
  
From the corner a thin, ugly figure smiled. "Apollo!" it cried, "Really! You're drunk! Never thought I'd see the day."  
  
Courfeyrac glanced up, saw Enjolras, and quickly looked down again.  
  
This, if nothing said to him that day, Enjolras had understood. The nights like those before them that he had barely slept creeped cunningly into his body making him ache with weariness.  
  
Perhaps he would faint. What then? He wouldn't have to reprimand Grantaire or feel any embarrassment at all.   
  
Enjolras drew himself up. Even the bruises under his eyes didn't take away his immortal beauty, although perhaps some of the beauty was really the beholder's fear.  
  
Despite that, however, he was fierce. All the anger, all the fury at his life, at his Amis, at how he could never sleep, was in his words:  
  
"*Grantaire*! Leave me *alone*!"  
  
He had lost his elegance. Indeed, there was no elegance. There was no art in the words. But there was hate and fury and that's how they worked.  
  
Grantaire cringed back, swayed and collapsed in his chair.  
  
"And you're not Apollo, right? You forgot that part, didn't you?"  
  
But Enjolras was gone. In the street. Breath coming in gasps.  
  
He smiled to himself, wondering if steam came from his body, like a horse's in this weather, with sleet pouring down on him.  
  
***  
  
The next day he was glanced at by his Amis. Despite this, he'd slept all night for the first time in weeks. The minute he'd lain down, soaking from the sleet and not having bothered to undress, he'd fallen asleep.  
  
He had woken in the morning feeling slightly crazy, but much better.  
  
And all day he'd done excellently, focusing his mind on what he did and actually acting as though he were alive.  
  
But they still glanced at him. He decided it was because of last night and engaged them all in conversation to convince them he was quite normal (if you'd like to consider normal the proper word in this situation.).  
  
He did look over at Grantaire once, not for any reason and found him looking away.  
  
Perhaps something had happened. Perhaps that panic and misery was over. Even if he had seen Courfeyrac and Bahorel shuffling cards, and now, with all the Amis gone, he saw the pack of cards on a table.  
  
That pack of cards…  
  
He stood, putting his book down, and went over.  
  
He picked the cards up.  
  
The one on top said 'tower'.  
  
There seemed to be a tower. More of a medieval turret. There was a lightning bolt striking it so the top cracked and was falling back.  
  
He carefully turned it upside-down.  
  
Nothing.  
  
"Tower. That's a clean break. Temporarily painful, but you end up all right in the end. It's what Bahorel got."  
  
Enjolras turned and met Grantaire's eyes.   
  
He quickly looked back at the cards.  
  
"Go away, I'm sure I don't need you to translate these for me."  
  
Grantaire didn't, so Enjolras ignored him.  
  
Next card.  
  
He quivered.  
  
It was a man hanging from his foot from a tree.  
  
The man's face was a pale and bloated, more as though he had been drowned than hung.  
  
"Hanged Man," it said beneath.  
  
Enjolras shivered.  
  
"Really!" laughed Grantaire. "You *do* need me to translate. It means sacrifice. Perhaps of personality." He paused "So, Apollo, what of your personality are you sacrificing and hiding from us? Is it that that drinks wine and keeps mistresses?"  
  
Enjolras supposed himself quite patient. "I told you once to go. Must I again?"  
  
"Oh, a thousand, thousand times, Apollo."  
  
Apollo had quite a desire to wring the mortal's neck but looked at the next card.  
  
The full moon.  
  
There were clouds part over it, and plants laced up around the sides and through the letters of "moon."  
  
Grantaire's voice was soft and made Enjolras step away a little.  
  
"Moon. Internal problems- obstacles. Repetition of a painful experience. What might that be, statue? I never knew you to have any painful experiences."  
  
"Grantai-"  
  
"Draw another card for a solution. And to tell you now, you're doing it wrong. First you shuffle the deck and put your energy and heart in it, then ask questions and draw for answers."  
  
"I'm doing it this way."  
  
"But it might not be answering your questions. It might still be doing Bahorel's."  
  
"I don't care. Go *away*. Now."  
  
He didn't.  
  
Enjolras did shuffle the cards a little.  
  
He drew.  
  
He got a card upside-down. He looked at the front.  
  
It was an angel in a chariot.  
  
The angel's wings were thrown back and there were little lines coming from his halo.  
  
"Making the most of only having black, brown, green, yellow and red ink, eh? Upside-down the Chariot means loosing control. Fear."  
  
Enjolras was furious.  
  
"Then why don't *you* have a go?!"  
  
He throughst the cards into Grantaire's hands. The latter sighed but began shuffling them. "You're tired," he murmured.  
  
Enjolras bristled. "Go. Away."  
  
Grantaire stepped closer. "Everything about you. You're so *thin*…"  
  
"I know myself, Grantaire, and do not need to be told."  
  
"Liar…"  
  
Enjolras pointedly ignored him. "Ah. What's that? Stars. That would be unexpected gifts."  
  
"How do you know?"  
  
He glanced at Grantaire and stepped back again.  
  
"I heard."  
  
"Yes, yes, I suppose you would. Never ask of something as immoral as Tarot." He stepped a little closer, bothering Enjolras extremely. "'Wonder what the unexpected gifts might be. From heaven, too, I've heard."  
  
Apollo hit him.  
  
Then he felt sour.  
  
And rather pouty, though heaven knows we don't describe Enjolras as pouty.  
  
Grantaire, on the other hand, felt his lip, as it had been cut and was now dripping blood. After a minute he muttered darkly, "That wasn't a suggestion," which made Enjolras flush and stalk over to find his book.  
  
After another minute he muttered again, "You, Apollo, should've gotten the Hierophant."  
  
Apollo ignored the insult, not understanding it anyway.  
  
"But neither of us asked questions," he continued "So we didn't do it right. And we don't know what questions of ours the cards were answering. I suppose…" He trailed off.  
  
Enjolras turned to him.  
  
"You believe in this-"  
  
"No," murmured Grantaire. "And it puts a bit less meaning in life, too."  
  
"And we all know you've none of that."  
  
Grantaire watched Enjolras go, frowning with love and hate.  
  
How could Courfeyrac have talked him into that? That wasn't so hard a question to answer - he was drunk. And Enjolras had just yelled at him then stalked out of the café. Then Courfeyrac came over, grinning, and asked Grantaire if he'd like to see Enjolras's reaction to some misplaced Tarot cards. At that time, last night, he'd been furious, as he was so often at his idol's perfection and beauty and tolerance, which did not exist. Even just now. No one, *no one* would have hit him like that for one small comment.   
  
He had been angry and hurt and defensive and hadn't wanted to show it. He'd started talking to anyone who would listen about how the demigod's arguments somehow weren't as good as before. Then he found he could hurt Enjolras if he wanted. Just once say something that hurt him.  
  
That sunk into him.  
  
How easy. How incredibly easy just to leave a deck of cards on the table were they surely would be seen and, due to the anxiety they had been causing, picked up. And they would be shuffled and read and Grantaire could help that. He could help Enjolras go pale and worried.  
  
The idea had been beautiful.  
  
But it had been Grantaire's hate for Enjolras, and that came and went.  
  
It had been *one short, stupid, small thing he had said*… Now where was his demigod? In the rain? In his apartment, sleeping?  
  
That reminded Grantaire.  
  
He should too.  
  
But who can sleep?  
  
He found a bottle of absinthe in the back room where he had left it earlier, and settled down in one of the uncomfortable chairs.  
  
***  
  
Enjolras had no sleep anyway. Except a little, a couple of hours in the grayish light of dawn.   
  
Classes went all right, though he almost fell asleep during a lecture. The meeting he had planned went well too.  
  
However, once he had gone home…   
  
He was putting a book on his bedside table when there was a moment and everything went black. A moment later he found himself on the floor, head pounding with pain.  
  
He glanced about then realized he'd hit the desk.  
  
He lay there a little longer.  
  
Nothing was ever right…  
  
He wasn't like the others. Things that they said and did were second nature to them but he could not. Maybe they couldn't speak the way he spoke or inspire others that way, but he couldn't laugh or… or sleep…  
  
***  
  
Hands were forgotten. Tarot cards were momentarily forgotten.  
  
It was a month later.  
  
Everyone stood around Enjolras's limp body. Someone fanned his face. Joly murmured he had a fever. Combeferre carefully stroked his hair back from his pale, burning face.  
  
There was a hushed confusion.  
  
"Oh- He's coming to," Bahorel pointed out unnecessarily, for everyone had watched him closely. They watched as his throat move.  
  
He choked lightly.  
  
Someone called for water and it as well as wine and brandy and absinthe was offered.  
  
He drank spilling only a little, thinking dizzily how undignified he must be cradled in- whose- oh, Combeferre's lap.  
  
The glass was taken away and he gazed around at his Amis. If they were his Amis any longer. If he was more of a friend than a deck of cards and a book of translations.   
  
He closed his eyes again.  
  
Combeferre murmured something and pressed the mouth of the bottle to Enjolras's lips. He shut his mouth tightly. There was a laugh.  
  
Grantaire's rough voice.  
  
"He's fine. Won't drink brandy. He's perfectly fine."  
  
Courfeyrac was the next not to be caught serious.  
  
"So, fearless leader, how are you? Is wine-cask correct?"  
  
Enjolras sighed deeply.  
  
This is not the sort of thing one answers.  
  
Combeferre's voice: "Would you like to go home and rest?"  
  
Would he? God, yes. If he could, that was.  
  
He longed not to speak. Not to have to speak.  
  
He moved his head slightly in a nod.  
  
An Ami took his hand and pulled him to his feet.  
  
Combeferre stood too, an arm around Enjolras's back, holding him up.  
  
"I'll get him home," said Combeferre, then addressed him, "Can you walk like this? With help?"  
  
Enjolras didn't want the others to hear him speak, to listen with interest at the words the ill man would say. He was a diversion from the routine.  
  
"I can walk. I'm fine. That was nothing. And I don't need you following me home, Combeferre." His voice was dry. And raspy. And his throat hurt like hell.  
  
Combeferre blushed, eyes apologetic behind the spectacles. The spectacles gave innocence to his face, Enjolras thought in annoyance.  
  
"Just to make sure you're fine..."  
  
Enjolras told himself that there'd be no discouraging Combeferre, though the truth was it happened to be quite easy to discourage him and really what he, himself, wanted was to have someone watching when he went to sleep, for he imagined it would be easier that way.  
  
"All right, very well," he said grudgingly.  
  
Combeferre smiled with relief.  
  
***  
  
It seemed, those few days while Combeferre sat by Enjolras as the fever raged, that Paris had turned to England. The weather was depressing, raining constantly, a cold mizzle rain.   
  
Combeferre would spend many evenings with a book of some philosopher's and a candle in front of him, and read to Enjolras. Not that the poor man was conscious to hear. He sweated and cried and altogether made living with him quite unpleasant, despite a doctor stopping by to tend to the sick man, prescribe things that could not be found, and giving advice; there was also Joly stopping by and disagreeing with everything the doctor had said.  
  
For Combeferre's part the days were both heaven and hell. He could sit by Enjolras and hear his words and gently wash the sweat away with cold water, but at the same time the words that were spoken were delirious and in fear. It made him ache. Why hadn't he seen that Enjolras didn't sleep? Now that he thought, there were the deep bruises under Enjolras' eyes and he had moved as a man whose back hurt.  
  
Enjolras was not just Grantaire's idol; he was also Combeferre's.  
  
Grantaire would never be what Enjolras was. He drank, he mocked everything, he had no right to anything, he loved nothing. Excepting Enjolras. The Leader was the only thing he would give his life for. And even his Idol, he mocked.  
  
For Combeferre, Enjolras was also something he could never be. The way his words inspired everyone, how easy speech was for him. And even the small things. Combeferre was near-sighted, he needed these spectacles. He was short. He was so plain. But Enjolras. Enjolras was his beautiful statue.  
  
But Combeferre was different from Grantaire. Should their statue fall Grantaire would turn away and pretend it didn't happen. Combeferre would help his statue, day by day, and finally have it back on the pedestal where it belonged.  
  
That's what he was doing now.  
  
It was all he could ever ask for in the world.   
  
***  
  
The Idol's fever had broken last night. He'd lain there. Combeferre smoothed back his hair.   
  
Neither of them had talked. Neither of them could. There was silence. And they were still awake when the candle melted down and blew out and there was only moonlight to see by.  
  
Then Combeferre fell asleep in his chair.  
  
And Enjolras smiled softly, feeling suddenly, unbearably happy that his friend should have been by him while he was ill.  
  
Now, however, it was morning, and he was starving.  
  
He reached out and shook Combeferre's arm. His friend blinked, then smiled. "What would you like?"  
  
It took a moment for Enjolras to find words, or really his voice. "Food?"  
  
Combeferre smiled. "Of course." He stood.  
  
Enjolras, not quite up to speaking, mouthed 'how long will you be gone?' Indeed it wasn't in concern for himself he liked to tell himself, and yet it was. He didn't know how much longer he could last. Hunger was always pleasant. It was wonderful to eat after being hungry, but at the moment he felt as though he might implode. The next thing he thought was this was how the poor people felt all the time. It both pleased him that he should be suffering with them and made him feel worse.  
  
Combeferre smiled. "Only a minute, 'fearless' leader."  
  
He caught Enjolras' glower and quickly left.  
  
Enjolras lay alone, in a half state almost, unaware of either the shouts from the street below of a thief's pursuers, or of two women talking in his hall.  
  
He could've slept if he weren't so goddamned hungry.  
  
Instead he yawned, snuggled deeper into the covers, got a repulsive sensation of sweat and sick person, got out of the bed quickly, and sat huddled in a blanket that had not been used, on Combeferre's chair.  
  
And he sulked. How long had he been sleeping? Less sleeping, and more sick. He wanted to ask Combeferre. The man had to get home *reasonably* soon. Where *was* he when you needed him? Enjolras closed his eyes and leaned back his head. He then opened his eyes and found a blanket corner to wipe his nose on. Nothing like a god with mucus running from his nose, after all.  
  
Combeferre came in.  
  
He'd caught Enjolras saying this to himself.  
  
"I quite agree." He handed the poor mortified man a croissant wrapped in parchment. "Eat that. I know I should've gotten more but it would've taken too long." He blushed. "Not that I wouldn't have done it, it's just that you-"  
  
Enjolras smiled. "Combeferre. It's all right." He unwrapped the gift from heaven and quietly began eating.  
  
There was a pause.  
  
"How are the Amis?"  
  
"Joly stopped by every day."  
  
"The others?"  
  
"Fine…"  
  
There was another pause.  
  
Enjolras frowned at Combeferre.  
  
"They won't any longer, will they?" he asked.  
  
"No…" Combeferre sighed. "They should, but I don't think they will. It's not your fault."  
  
Enjolras laughed. A laugh that made him ache and want to sob and turn his back to everything. "Not my fault?" he asked. "It surely is my fault. They would have followed me forever when I was strong. But now… I'd like to be what I was… but…"  
  
"-You cannot sleep."  
  
"How do you know?"  
  
"You said."  
  
"Oh…"  
  
Another pause, this one shorter than the others.  
  
"What if I stay here? I'll pay half the rent and I can get a couch for myself and then I could look after you to make sure you're all right and that you sleep." Combeferre was blushing again.  
  
Enjolras watched him wonderingly.  
  
This *could* be… he would be fine. His revolution would succeed after all…  
  
//Don't act pleased.//  
  
"If you think you must… but you don't have to pay for rent."  
  
Combeferre looked scandalized.  
  
"Oh- but I- I insist-"  
  
Enjolras looked demurely away. "If you must."  
  
His friend smiled. "Thank you." He paused. "How're you feeling?"  
  
"Much better, thank you." Enjolras gazed up, where the window was. "So you stayed here while I was… ill?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"And I" -he blushed- "said things?"  
  
Combeferre looked worried and apologetic. The man was so kind and careful and dignified it hurt. "Not much. Would you like to know?  
  
'There he goes again' thought Enjolras. "Yes please." Kind, yes. Boring, often.  
  
"You said you couldn't sleep, you…er… talked to Grantaire…"   
  
Enjolras groaned.  
  
"You talked to me, you mentioned a hanged man too… Enjolras?"  
  
Enjolras had the pillow over his face.  
  
"Are you all right?"  
  
"I *am* a hanged man, aren't I?" The pillow muffled his voice: "'Sacrifice, perhaps of personality'. I hate Courfeyrac. Why doesn't he just stay with his mistresses for the rest of eternity and stop coming to meetings? And Grantaire could jump in the Seine and drown himself for the last time."  
  
Combeferre looked blank.   
  
"Surely…"  
  
Enjolras removed the pillow so he could glare at the poor man. "You," he said, "do not take me seriously."  
  
Combeferre smiled. "Actually, I should hope I do, for often I've had the same thought."  
  
And he had, too. How often had he dreamed that the drunkard and the skirtchaser would leave his statue alone so it could be happy. But, perhaps, his dreams were a bit less violent. Maybe Grantaire would go back where he came from. And it didn't matter. In the very end no one would be able to hurt his statue. The last hurt his golden idol would sustain would be a gunshot. And perhaps that would hurt some people. And perhaps it would hurt Enjolras. Perhaps there would be a frozen moment when Enjolras would realize that pain *hurt*. But just a moment, and then it would be over. And then sleeping wouldn't be hard.  
  
Enjolras smiled, seeing he'd meant it.  
  
"Ah. Surely."  
  
***  
  
And it was heaven again for Combeferre.  
  
They shared the apartment. And when someone shares a small living space one shares laughter and ideas and tears.  
  
Things that had worried them at first evened out. Indeed they had different schedules, but in the end it worked out.  
  
There were things only they understood. Words that meant things to them. They read the same books. Sometimes in the evening Enjolras would sit on his bed and Combeferre at the foot and they would read, every now and then reading out loud something they found interesting. And somehow Combeferre learned much of a surgeon's trade, and Enjolras, a philosopher's.   
  
And there were strange customs they had created. Like braiding each other's hair before they slept, something so undignified they both loved doing it. Indeed the laughter and the exclamations disturbed the landlady quite a bit, but neither knew anyone actually heard. Enjolras claimed he hated it. Combeferre claimed that was why he did it. But they both enjoyed it thoroughly.  
  
And it was April. And it was too cold for April. But they read together, and the light from the candles somehow warmed them.  
  
Neither had lived in such happiness before. They laughed when they were together. They cared what the other thought. They shared their lives between them, asking the other for advice.   
  
And Enjolras was in that sort of ecstasy that one would never leave if one could. He liked the laughter, he admired his friend. And he slept now. He would lie, listening to Combeferre's even breath. And he slept. Perhaps, still, sometimes he couldn't. Then he'd stand on his bed and gaze out the window.  
  
Two months till June…  
  
Only two months…  
  
***  
  
Enjolras sat on his bed, Combeferre beside him.  
  
They read, or appeared to read. Combeferre was reading, certainly. Enjolras…  
  
Enjolras sighed and finally asked the question he'd been longing to.  
  
"Is it too soon?"  
  
Combeferre looked up. "You mean the revolution?"  
  
"Mm." Enjolras avoided his eyes, feeling guilty. Everything had changed in the last months. Now there was something to live for. Now there was Combeferre to laugh with. Combeferre…  
  
"Well, I think… I think since all the Amis had decided with you on June 6th…"  
  
"I don't mean like that. I meant too early to end our lives." His eyes were firmly on the wall. He didn't want to see Combeferre's disbelief at the fearless leader frightened.  
  
"I believe," murmured Combeferre "that this is early for anyone to die."  
  
Enjolras didn't move a muscle. If Combeferre believed it right to wait, they would wait.  
  
"However," he continued, "This isn't for us… I… I… didn't think… that is what you meant when we started this, non?"  
  
Had it? Enjolras wasn't sure any longer. Had it been despair, futility of life that had driven him to the revolution?  
  
Carefully he put his hand in his book to keep his place.  
  
"Of course. And it's still that way. Except that… You? Wouldn't *you* live longer if you could?" He was being a coward, and he knew it. Months, it seemed like years ago, when Courfeyrac had called him a coward, he hadn't known how much he really was. This conversation was about him, but he'd shifted it to Combeferre for safety's sake.  
  
He glanced up and met Combeferre's eyes.  
  
He blanched.  
  
Combeferre's eyes were trusting. He was deep in thought over the matter, wanting nothing more than to answer Enjolras's question. Then he frowned in worry.  
  
"Are you all right? Are you ill?"  
  
"I-I didn't think…"  
  
Combeferre touched his forehead. "You're all right as far as that's concerned. Maybe you should sleep."  
  
"Perhaps…"  
  
Somehow, through all Combeferre did, he did not do as well as he thought. Yes, he'd helped his statue back up. But his statue had never been a statue. His statue had only been a broken man who had stepped up on the pedestal just to be further from earth.  
  
When he had fallen it was because his legs would not hold him any longer.  
  
When he had climbed back up…  
  
He never had climbed back up. He had simply slipped into Combeferre's arms.  
  
And then told them both he stood again.  
  
And now he didn't want to die.  
  
Now he didn't want to leave Combeferre's arms.  
  
Now he just wanted to live like this forever and ever and ever…  
  
Combeferre was gentle.  
  
"Got to sleep. You're tired. You didn't sleep until later last night."   
  
"Didn't I?"  
  
"No. You didn't. So do now."  
  
Enjolras faltered.  
  
"Combeferre…" he murmured, softly protesting.  
  
"So will you sleep?"  
  
He hesitated, then sighed. "I will sleep."  
  
And he did.  
  
***  
  
Enjolras hated, every day, talking about that incredibly stupid and pointless revolution. It would never change anything. Then, bitterly, it would change *him*. Combeferre. He would never keep what he *wanted* to keep because *Combeferre* believed. Why *him*? The one person who if ever doubted he would listen to.  
  
He loved life so *much* now.  
  
Too much to give it up.  
  
Oh, of *course* he'd always been self-centered. When *his* world spun he could never see another's.  
  
He was so unlike Combeferre. Combeferre always saw everything. Until now. Now when things *mattered* he didn't see, though this didn't lead Enjolras to believe Combeferre's life might not be perfect.  
  
So when Combeferre got a fever Enjolras was frightened. He had no idea what to do. It was hell standing useless even after he'd gotten a doctor. It was hell speaking to his friend who didn't hear him. Hell, whispering useless words about things he was sure Combeferre loved. Revolution, a book of philosophers, poetry he knew just from the words Combeferre would like.   
  
Combeferre never heard the words.  
  
He heard the voice, though. That he did love.  
  
But voices don't save sick men and no one came to help even though Enjolras never came to classes. Seemingly no one missed Combeferre. Perhaps it was because the man was so infuriating. Quiet, Decent, Patient. Everyone liked him, but at the same time they disliked how he represented thoughtful caring. And it hurts to see someone so pleasant and cheerful squirming and sweating and crying.  
  
Voices don't save sick men…  
  
And it was all Enjolras's fault.  
  
He was so helpless.  
  
Surgeon, not doctor…  
  
How many times had he told himself that?  
  
How many evenings had he paced about, trying to remember whether one should keep someone with a fever warm or cool?  
  
And then given up and just sat by Combeferre's bedside, part crying, part speaking, helpless, *wishing* someone cared and would come to see his friend.  
  
Was it only he who cared about Combeferre? Joly had come when he was sick, Combeferre had told him.  
  
Oh, god, *why*?  
  
And it was worse afterwards.  
  
Sitting there.  
  
Knowing.  
  
Holding a still burning hand dripping with sweat. Brushing the man's hair back with confusion. Crying helplessly over a pair of glasses for someone near-sighted.  
  
Everything was a dream.  
  
Everything was killing him again.  
  
He'd hid the glasses so the boy's parents couldn't have them.  
  
He never slept.  
  
Instead he'd sit on his friend's couch and pray and cry. And he searched. He traced. He found everything he could. He searched for books and papers… anything to bring back soft laughter, quiet evenings, the smell of croissant's brought home to feed them both, the warmth of someone sitting beside him on the bed. And nothing did.  
  
He'd lost everything he'd loved.  
  
Everyone else hurt from it, too.  
  
No one could approach Enjolras.  
  
Grantaire got hell worse than ever.  
  
And the revolution was happening June sixth.  
  
And once again, Enjolras wanted it.   
  
***  
  
He lay on the couch, his body aching from lack of sleep. Broken, not aching. But his body was still beautiful. He still looked like a god.   
  
"Soon," he promised himself and Combeferre. "We're almost there. June sixth."  
  
He got up and walked listlessly about.  
  
"Oh… this is the book I read to you." He studied the plain, bound book. A book full of its own lives and death that hurt itself. But there had been beautiful things in it. Things that had made life seem beautiful.  
  
The book would never have contained poetry of love. Enjolras would have never gotten it if it had.  
  
*Now* he knew what love was.  
  
It wasn't love of a woman that he'd thought and been disgusted with.  
  
Love of a friend.  
  
Love of the most wonderful person…  
  
Love that changed yourself.  
  
That made *you* different.  
  
He'd loved Combeferre dearly.  
  
No poet could know that.  
  
He glanced about the room. Did Combeferre know it?  
  
Carefully he wrote in the inside cover of the book "Combeferre," but then he didn't know what to write. What did he want to say? He wanted to apologize. He wanted to ask. To be forgiven for his stupidity. To tell Combeferre what no one had ever said about love.  
  
"Combeferre, I love you more than the revolution."  
  
***  
  
In the last moments of his life while he held Grantaire's hand, he knew Combeferre wanted that. He had been like Grantaire. They had both believed in Enjolras. They would both always believe in Enjolras.  
  
The smile hadn't been for Grantaire, though.  
  
A moment.  
  
A moment, Combeferre.  
  
You've always been the moon, Enjolras, and I never knew…  
  
We'd both be fools, though.  
  
The End. 


End file.
